And all our frugal ancestors were blefs'd
In humble virtues, and a rural life.
There live retir'd; pray for the peace of Rome;
Content thyself to be obfcurely good.
When vice prevails, and impious men bear fway,
The post of honour is a private station.
I hope, my father does not recommend A life to Portius, that he fcorns himself.
Farewell, my friends! if there be any of
That dares not truft the victor's clemency,
Know there are ships prepar'd by my command,.
(Their fails already opening to the winds)
That shall convey you to the wish'd-for port.
Is there aught elfe, my friends, I can do for you?
The conqueror draws near. Once more farewell!
If e'er we meet hereafter, we fhall meet
In happlier climes and on a safer shore,
Where Cæfar never fhall approach us more.
There the brave youth, with love of virtue fir'd,
[Pointing to the body of his dead for..
Who greatly in his country's cause expir'd,
Shall know he conquer'd. The firm patriot there
(Who made the welfare of mankind his care)
Though ftill, by faction, vice, and fortune, croft,
Shall find the generous labour was not loft.
Sitting in a thoughtful pofture: In his hand Plato's book. on the immortality of the foul. A drawn ford ex the table by him.
T muft be fo-Plato, thou reason'st well!:
Elfe whence this pleafing hope, this fond defire,
This longing after immortality?
Or whence this fecret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into nought? Why fhrinks the foul
Back on herself, and startles at deftruction?
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us;
'Tis heaven itself, that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful, thought!
Through what variety of untry'd being,
Through what new fcenes and changes must we país !
The wide, th' unbounded prospect, lies before me ;
But fhadows, clouds, and darkness, reft upon it..
Here will I hold. If there's a power above us,
(And that there is all nature cries aloud
Through all her works) he muft delight in virtue;
And that which he delights in must be happy.
But when! or where !-This world was made for Cæfar.
I'm weary of conjectures-This must end them.
[Laying his hand upon bis fword..
Thus am I doubly arm'd: my death and life,,
My bane and antidote, are both before me:
This in a moment brings me to an end:
But this informs me I fhall never die.
The foul, fecur'd in her existence, fimiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the fun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature fink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amidst the war of elements,
The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds.
What means this heavinefs that hangs upon me?
This lethargy that creeps through all my fenfes ?
Nature opprefs'd, and harrafs'd out with care,
Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her,
That my awaken'd foul may take her flight,
Renew'd in all her frength, and fresh with life,
An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear
Disturb man's reft: Cato knows neither of them,
Indifferent in his choice, to fleep or die.
But ha! how's this, my fon? why this intrufion? Were not my orders that I would be private ?
What means this sword? this inftrument of death?
Rafh youth, forbear!
PORTIU S.
O let the prayers, th' entreaties of your friends, Their tears, their common danger, wreft it from you.
Wouldst thou betray me? would't thou give me up A flave, a captive, into Cæfar's hands? Retire, and learn obedience to a father,
PORTIUS.
Look not thus fternly on me ;
You know I'd rather die than difobey you.
'Tis well!- again I'm mafter of myself.
Now, Cæfar, let thy troops befet our gates,,
And bar each avenue, thy gathering fleets
O'er-spread the fea, and ftop up every port;,
Cato fhall open to himself a paffage,
And mock thy hopes
PORTIU S..
O Sir, forgive your son,
Whofe grief hangs heavy on him! O my father t
How am I fure it is not the last time
I e'er shall call you fo! Be not difpleas'd,
O be not angry with me whilft I weep,
And, in the anguifh of my heart, befeech you
To quit the dreadful purpofe of your foul.
Thou hast been ever good and dutiful.
Weep not, my fon. All will be well again.
The righteous gods, whom I have fought to please,
Will fuccour Cato, and preferve his children.
Your words give comfort to my drooping heart.
САТО.
Portius, thou may'ft rely upon my conduct.
Thy father will not act what mifbecomes him.
But go, my fon, and fee if aught be wanting.
Among thy father's friends: fee them embark'd;
And tell me if the winds and feas befriend them.
My foul is quite weigh'd down with care, and afks
The foft refreshment of a moment's fleep.
My thoughts are more at cafe, my heart revives.
O Marcia, O my fister, still there's hope!
Our father will not caft away a life
So needful to us all, and to his country.
He is retir'd to reft, and feems to cherish
Thoughts full of peace. He has dispatch'd me hence With orders, that befpeak a mind compos'd,
And ftudious for the fafety of his friends.
Marcia, take care that none disturb his flumbers. [Exit.
O ye immortal powers, that guard the just,
Watch round his couch, and foften his repofe,
Banish his forrows, and becalm his foul
With easy dreams; remember all his virtues!
And fhow mankind that goodness is your care.
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